


Every Day Holds Wonders

by Lauren_StDavid



Series: Beechwood Shorts [1]
Category: The Monkees, The Monkees (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Lazy Mornings, M/M, Morning After, Schmoop, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2021-01-27 16:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21395203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauren_StDavid/pseuds/Lauren_StDavid
Summary: Takes place the morning after Mike and Peter get together at the end of Love Bright as the Sun. Schmoop with benefits?
Relationships: Mike Nesmith/Peter Tork
Series: Beechwood Shorts [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1542475
Comments: 10
Kudos: 10





	Every Day Holds Wonders

**Author's Note:**

  * For [70mtt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/70mtt/gifts).

> Takes place the morning after Mike and Peter get together at the end of Love Bright as the Sun. Schmoop with benefits?

Something landing with a flop over his chest woke Mike with a jolt, and the jerked-from-sleep bit of his mind tried to piece things together. _Tree branch. Hit me across my torso. _No, why would it be? Because it was longish and slim and supple? _Not that sort of limb_, a more alert part of his brain tried to communicate to the rest, the rest that was grappling with the fact that his room looked different. Or he was looking at it from a different…not position, but…height? _Because you’re on a mattress on the floor_, the clever bit of his brain sighed, trying to make itself understood by the other bits. _You put the mattresses—yes; plural. Keep up—on the floor last night because—_

_Peter. I’m sleeping with Peter. Peter and I are sleeping together._ _Peter and I are together!_ All the parts of Mike’s brain and heart worked in harmony and he raised a hand to stroke Peter’s arm that was flung across his chest from where Peter slept on his back, like Mike had been, at Mike’s side. _By my side._ Mike shifted as much as he could without moving to feast his eyes and his brain and his heart on Peter, golden-haired and freckle-faced, his sandy eyelashes fluttering, his dimple revealed and the tiny, intriguing mole on his lip moving as Peter smiled and mouthed something in his sleep.

Peter, sleeping, sleep-warm and sleep-scented and there. _Here._ Being lower down than usual made it hard to work out the time from where the sun played in their room, but it did mean the golden rays lit Peter like a spotlight, dancing on his shining blond hair and catching the darker, perhaps even more inviting, hair on his chest. The sheet passing across his waist cut off further viewing pleasure, made it impossible to follow the dark-blond trail down from his bellybutton…

Peter. His Peter. MichaelandPeter, as Peter called them, because he was clever and understood things much better than Mike did or ever would. Mike turned a little onto one side, to stare his fill. The weight of Peter’s arm across Mike’s chest and the feel of his skin under Mike’s fingers proved it was real, that Peter was with him. Mike hadn’t thought that would be possible, after what had happened, what he’d done. How his evasions and secrecy and the unilateral, far-reaching and dangerous decisions he’d made had hurt Peter, had even made him think Mike was amusing himself with him. Made him doubt himself. Peter had cried, wringing Mike’s heart.

Mike still couldn’t believe Peter had given him another chance, another possibility of them being MichaelandPeter. He didn’t deserve it, he knew, but he had it and grabbed at it with both hands. Talking of, or thinking of, Peter’s hand twitched, as if empty, and Mike slid his into it, to slot his fingers between Peter’s and hold. Hold him, for as long as Peter would let him. Mike didn’t fool himself that this would be forever. Nothing was. Not with him, anyway, despite the strength of his feelings and the force of his yearning. But as long as Peter wanted him, wanted _them_, Mike would love him. “I will, darlin’,” he whispered, needing to vow his pledge out loud. “I do.”

Peter shifted, stretching, and Mike cursed himself for waking him, both because it’d disturbed Peter, who needed his rest after last night, and for depriving himself of this bounty, this treat of being able to stare at Peter, to trace and map every beautiful feature. He looked…chubbier in sleep, maybe, his face and neck sunken in relaxation? His bangs fell across his forehead from one side, like when Peter used to comb his long hair into a sort-of-respectable side part, like a hippie’s version of an old-coot’s comb-over.

And that sweep of bangs across to one side was kind of like Mike’s swoop of much darker, much less satiny hair. His didn’t tangle silkily in his eyelashes though, and certainly not in that coy, peek-a-boo way Peter’s did, when he stood, head bent, playing guitar or banjo, that way that made Mike want to stroke a gentle finger or blow a soft puff of air into Peter’s hair to free it from his eyes. And now he could, and in front of Davy and Micky, who were fine with his and Peter’s changed relationship. Happy about it, even, as far as Mike could tell and—

“_Ummph?_” came on an exhalation from Peter, and he rolled to turn on his stomach…and in doing so, landed on top of Mike. Well. What could Mike do except to settle into place, Peter’s human bed, as Peter was now his human blanket? Well, not settle—he couldn’t, with Peter snuffling into the side of his neck like that. More than breathing and less than burrowing and wholly wonderful, Peter’s weight and energy pressing him down. And it made Mike shift and re-position himself, allowing himself a brief, now you feel-it, now-you-don’t nuzzle of Peter’s ear as he did so, so Peter could stretch more definitely over him. And if that left them cock to cock? Well, that was just a lucky bonus.

Mike waited as long as he could—at least a quarter of a minute—to make sure Peter relaxed again, before taking advantage of the position they were in to run his hands down the toned, tan expanse of Peter’s back to his ass and feel its slopes with his fingers. He tried to keep his touch, his exploration, light, even though he wanted to grab and fill his palms. Even so, and as much as he loved those tight cheeks, he couldn’t resist gently parting them and easing a careful, cautious finger along the cleft.

He shouldn’t, he knew. Knew it was unscrupulous to take advantage of a defenseless Peter, to treat him in a way he wouldn’t have an awake Peter. Not yet. Not this soon into things. His heart kicked at his daring and wickedness, making him stop, but too late—the jump in his chest must have disturbed his sleeping partner. First his hair swished on Mike’s skin in the world’s most delicious, delicate tickle, then, with a soft sound that could almost have been a snort, Peter nudged his nose into him.

“_Shhh,_” Mike whispered. “Go back to sleep, darlin’.”

The way Peter stilled, then dug heavier into him, and his almost-giggle meant he didn’t have to say, “_Back?_” for Mike to get it. “Oh, I see.” Mike arched his chest, to get Peter’s face up. “How long have you been awake there, babe?”

“Oh, a while before I hit you to wake _you_ up.” And bedroom-soft butter-sweet eyes looked up at him through butterscotch eyelashes, and Peter gave him that dimpled-but-not-quite-innocent-enough smile.

Mike blushed, recalling what Peter had been awake for, in that case. “Sorry about the…about me…” _Groping you_, he couldn’t bring himself to say. “And about your ankle.” He was glad to have something that wasn’t anything to do with him to express contrition over. He scratched a toenail at the bandage providing compression on Peter’s swollen joint. “But, you know, it could have been worse. Could have been your wrist. That’d be much worse, right? Spoil all our plans.” He caught up with that and how it stuck like a lump in the bedroom morning. “Because of playing music, with the gigs we got lined up, I mean. Not anything sexual. I wasn’t—”

“Michael.” Peter sighed. He spiked his elbows into the mattress, one either side of Mike, to look at him. “This, us, this—”

“MichaelandPeter.” Mike’s heart thudded.

“Yes. It won’t work if we’re different with each other. If we don’t behave, don’t treat each other the same. Please tell me you know that.”

“I…do.” Mike swallowed, nodded. “Peter…”

Whatever Peter saw in Mike’s eyes reassured him. He nodded.

“I do. And I am sorry about your ankle. Musta been painful.”

Peter gave a one-shoulder shrug. ‘“Falling off a roof is never easy,’ to quote ‘the Mickster,’ to quote Amanda’s nickname for Micky.” He settled himself again. “How many roofs has he fallen off, d’you think?”

“Well, this one, but it probably counts as several, seeing as he’s tumbled from it at least once every three months since we’ve been here. And he was real sorry he’d put you through that ‘pretending to be a ghost’ crap. As he should be.” Mike’s tone was grim, holding a threat. “I wish I’d done it, not you.”

“It was more believable I’d be pranking him. Or that I thought I was a ghost. Whatever story they cooked up for Amanda, the British ghost hunter, and Toby, her willing if slightly confused, assistant. And the photographer and stylist they brought with them from the magazine.”

Mike closed his eyes at the memory. All his plans for his and Peter’s first real night together and they’d had to spend it…like that. “At least they got some nice shots of what a modern lady ghost hunter wears, I guess.”

“Even if there wasn’t a ghost to hunt. Just a bassist in a sheet. One who lost his hold and fell from his hiding place on the roof,” came muffled from his chest.

“Micky better be damn grateful,” Mike growled, not wanting to think about Peter toppling from that height. “He promised to make it up to you. To us. And he’d better. What, babe?” He tried to interpret Peter’s wriggle and exclamation.

“Can we…stop talking?” Peter dug him in the ribs.

“Hey! You little—” Mike twisted and dislodged Peter, who fought back. They wrestled, quite evenly matched, Peter’s beach-sports-and-yoga-honed muscles a challenge to Mike’s wiry strength. “Ooh, you fight dirty!” Mike panted, unsurprised. They’d roughhoused before, but never like this. Never naked and in bed, arousal simmering. He pinned Peter underneath him. “Gotcha!”

“Maybe, but I think you’re going to want me on top,” declared Peter, flicking his bangs from his eyes with a twist of his head.

“For…” Mike, adoring having Peter’s warmth and promise under him, was genuinely curious.

“This.” Peter jack-knifed up and out in heartbeat, to climb on top of Mike in another.

Yeah, there weren’t really words for _this_, the easy twist of Peter’s body that had his strong thighs either side of the very top of Mike’s legs, and his balls and cock right there, _oh God,_ perfectly placed, for soft, lazy rubbing, even if it soon became more deliberate and meaningful. Peter wriggled, really flaunting that sexy ass, and Mike got the message, that he should return to it, to play there, at the same time as Peter rubbed his heavy balls and swollen cock on Mike’s swelling crotch.

“Oh yeah,” Mike gritted out, loving it and unable to bear it, all at once.

“Yeah?”

Mike grinned, despite the discomfort. “Yeah. Whatever you want, babe. Whatever you need.” He moved in counterpoint, in slow circles to Peter’s grinding, trapped as he was so beautifully under that golden body. An extra-good grind of Peter’s made Mike spasm, and he curled his fingers hard into the globes of Peter’s ass, receiving an answering groan. His hands on either side of Mike’s face, Peter bit down on Mike’s neck in response to the pressure and stimulation, provoking another hard thrust of Mike’s and a further uncompromising meeting of their pelvises. They gazed at each other, lost in this easy give and take, Mike staring into the topaz haze of Peter’s eyes as they prolonged this beat for endless minutes.

Mike was the first to close his eyes against the perfect pressure, the beyond-good slide and drag of skin on skin, balls on balls, cock against cock. Peter leant in for an even harder bite and more forceful thrust, and their sweet, easy rhythm turned more staccato, short and hard, yet golden as the summer morning outside. Their climax washed over them like a breaking wave, breath-stealing and mind-emptying, and wonderful in that it was shared. _With Peter. Because of Peter. _Peter who, still panting, raised his head high enough to place a kiss on Mike’s lips.

Mike squirmed when Peter dropped flat again, digging his chin and burrowing his forehead, resting in the hollow of Mike’s neck. “No,” he protested, his breath still stuttering. “Get back up here.” He jiggled a little, just until Peter rose again, to tease him by hovering, at his lips, one eyebrow arched in fake question. “Oh, you…”

A tiny tilt of Mike’s chin had their lips meeting again, even sweeter and softer than before, their eyes open wide and noses and eyelashes bumping and tangling and fitting just right. Mike shivered at the final spasm raking him, dislodging Peter from his place. “Next time, I’m kissing you as we come,” he promised Peter, and himself. “Oh my.” Mike took a deep breath, let it out, and helped Peter slide fully off him.

“My what,” Peter asked idly, looking at the mess they’d made of each other.

_My everything._ Mike took his lips in a fierce hard kiss, making Peter’s eyes really open and him bring a hand to his mouth after. Mike made the kiss stand for the words he wanted to say but didn’t know if he should. Again. Now.

Peter grinned. “Love you too,” he murmured, against Mike’s lips, as easy and natural as a sunrise.

Mike closed his eyes to let it flow over him, then sink in. It…was going to take a while, and Peter’s expression, when Mike opened his eyes again, said he knew. Knew and was prepared.

“My…turn to get breakfast,” Mike answered him. “Stay here, Peter. Rest up that ankle, huh?” He fetched a face cloth for Peter to clean up, taking the opportunity to use their non-suite, as Peter called it, himself.

“Huh?” Peter asked, when Mike returned and stood staring.

“Oh, just thinking, forget breakfast—you look good enough to eat,” Mike admitted, gazing down at Peter. He’d hefted one mattress back onto the bedframe and was lying, one arm behind his head, his foot propped up.

“Later.” Peter’s grin was wicked. “Go get your coffee. Can’t stand you cranky.” He rolled and dodged Mike’s attempted swat with the T-shirt he was pulling on, to go with his shorts. “See? You can’t even aim straight when you’re hungry.”

Not feeling his usual morning-crankiness, despite the lack of caffeine or food, Mike went to see what there was. He didn’t expect there to be much, so the bowls and containers on the counter surprised him. He lifted lids, took out ingredients, and got busy.

“What tea do you want, Peter?”

“No need to shout. And none.”

Mike jumped at the voice just above and behind him. He hadn’t expected Peter to be on the upper landing, his chin on the railing, looking down at him. “Get back into bed!” he called up.

“I’m not sick and I’m not an invalid—you’re not quite that good,” Peter replied.

“That a challenge? And really no tea?”

Peter laughed. “Coffee. I feel like coffee today. And is that bacon I smell?”

“You want that too?” Mike was surprised, and turned to see Peter nodding. “At least sit in the chair up there, babe!” he begged. Noises told him Peter had gone to sit in one of the loungers at the end of the landing.

“What are you cooking?” Peter asked.

“Believe it or not, grilled bacon, plus blueberry pancakes”—Mike ladled small dollops of batter into the sizzling pan and dropped a few more berries onto each–“with maple syrup.”

“Wow. So _I’m_ that good?”

It took Mike a few seconds to link Peter’s comment back to his previous one, and when he did, it made him smile. “Yeah. You are. But this is courtesy of Micky. Seems he and Davy were over at the girls’ place, helping Toby cook Amanda a real American breakfast, for the start to her first week here.” And trying to make it up to them, for the dumb fake-ghost story, Mike supposed, reading between the lines of Micky’s note.

“And getting their share. And this is our share?” Peter asked.

“Yeah.” Mike flipped the pancakes over. “The guys dropped it off and they’re gonna be at a neighbor’s and at the beach all morning. Give us some privacy.” Which they had to make the most of, the way the hours were slipping away. Deciding the pancakes were fluffy and golden enough, Mike tipped them onto the kitchen paper, then a plate, making a stack which he drizzled with the rest of the syrup left in the small jug. He arranged the grilled bacon on another plate and poured coffees.

“I could get used to this.” Peter closed his book and replaced it in the small bookcase, moving that in between the beach loungers for Mike to rest the laden tray on, once he’d reached the top of the spiral stairs. “You spoiling me. Yesterday _and_ today,” he added, reflecting.

“Every day. Unless I’m in a mood,” Mike admitted. It wasn’t as easy eating like this, sitting with their top halves upright and their lower halves stretched out on recliners, twisting to fork up bacon or pancakes from the communal plates in between them. Eating at the kitchen table below would’ve been less complicated, but… “What’s this landing this week?” He waved his fork around the upstairs balcony space. “Your reading nook?”

“Reading and drawing.” Peter narrowed his eyes, as if assessing whether there was enough room for an easel and to store paints here on the balcony. “In fact, I did some drawing while you were cooking.”

Mike couldn’t see any sketchpads or pencils out, just a black pen.

“I designed a tattoo.” Peter indicated the drawing, high on his outer thigh, almost hidden by his boxers. “Like it?”

“It’s…” Mike peered hard at what looked like a sweep of dark hair above two eyes. Two dark, penetrating eyes. “_Me?_ My eyes, at least.”

“In honor of your native state’s song. Look. ‘The eyes of Texas are upon you,’” Peter sang. “Or rather, upon me,” he finished, collapsing in laughter.

Mike followed suit. ‘“All the live long days,’” he managed, spluttering. “You little loon. Hey!” He tried and failed to stop Peter stealing the last rasher of bacon while Mike was distracted.

“What? I left you a pancake!” Peter said, around the crispy bacon. “Here.” He kindly cut a slice off and held it to Mike’s lips for him. “And these are really good. Thank you.”

Mike couldn’t be mad at Peter. He dabbed the rest of the pancake in the last drop of syrup and fed it to him. “I’ll vote for you to have this space,” he said. “I don’t want it and I don’t want Micky to have it as his metalwork shop or chemistry lab.” He shuddered at the memory of the first, Micky’s trial run of his proposal. The whine of the drills, the metal filings shearing off to land below, the threat posed by a soldering iron and an easily distracted Micky…

“And Davy’s cocktail bar idea?”

“When do we ever have enough different booze to make a cocktail?” Mike asked. “We got a bottle, we drink it. Got more than one, we throw a party.” That being the case, he didn’t see how Davy would get a week’s trial of his idea.

Mike stacked the empty plates and cups on the tray and moved the bookcase so there was nothing in between him and Peter, particularly when he moved his lounger close to Peter’s. He reclined and gazed out over the pad as if they were on the beach, looking out at the sea. Amazing how much dust and grime he could see from this height. Nah. He’d rather look at Peter. And hold his hand, between both of his, close to his heart, still not quite believing. But he would, he hoped, given enough time. If he had it. He’d do his best to get it.

“You’re studying me,” Peter said a few minutes later, flexing in his T-shirt. “In case you have to identify me, in a line-up?”

“Could do that with my eyes closed.” He could too, Mike reckoned, just by the feel of the energy or vibes Peter gave off. He’d know them—him—anywhere.

“Hm. So you’re, what, planning how best to sketch me?”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Mike confessed. “If I thought I could get your cute little nose properly.” He traced a finger down it. He’d always liked it.

“Oh.” Peter laughed. “My Nordic nose. Also known as a ski-slope. Not like your classical Greek nose. That’s straight.”

“It has a sorta slope up at the end, maybe,” Mike mused, feeling it.

“And you know, I have a sort of chin cleft, a bit like yours.” Peter touched it. “Oh God. What if it means we’re related? That would make what we do in the privacy of the bedroom just plain wrong!”

Mike smirked. “Talking of, shotgun, I’d say it’s about time for seconds, wouldn’t you?”

Peter blinked. “Who mentioned food? And you can’t be hungry, after that brunch?”

“Oh, but I am.” Mike stood, helping Peter to his feet. “And no, you didn’t mention food. Think about what you did just bring up.”

“Oh.” It didn’t take Mike escorting Peter to the door for Peter to catch on. “The privacy of the bedroom. Round two, while we do have privacy, before the others come home, yes?”

Nodding, Mike ushered Peter in, following close.

“It’s okay. I’m not planning on escaping,” Peter assured him

“You wouldn’t be able to.” Mike sniggered. “You know how the song goes on? ‘The eyes of Texas are upon you, and you cannot get away.’ What? You started it.” He crossed to the record player and selected one of the other LPs they’d brought up last night. Davy’s early work had been relegated to the bottom of the stack.

“Say, shouldn’t we wait thirty minutes?” Peter asked, watching Mike haul the other mattress from the floor onto the bedframe.

“That’s swimming.” Mike held up a warning finger. “And no wisecracks on that, huh? But don’t worry. I’ll go slow on ya.”

“What…are you planning?” Peter’s tone came wary and he eyed Mike with suspicion.

“Well, that brunch was nice an’ all…but I didn’t get dessert.” Mike gently pushed Peter to lie flat, pulling the T-shirt off him as he did so.

Bare-chested, Peter propped himself up, on his elbows behind him. “If this is where you produce more maple syrup…”

Mike was annoyed he hadn’t thought of that. Next time. “No. I want to taste you.”

“Oh. Okay.” Mollified, Peter lay down again, meeping when Mike tugged him lower in the bed, to start in on him. He unwound the bandage around Peter’s ankle and checked the injury. No swelling—it seemed fine.

“How’s it looking?”

“Fucken gorgeous,” Mike answered Peter, sweeping his gaze over the tan, toned whole of him. He started with his feet, as well-formed and yet strong as the rest of him, sucking and nibbling on his toes and making Peter wriggle and clap a hand over his mouth to hold in the shrieks.

“Sensitive,” Mike commented, filing that information away. He moved onto Peter’s strong calves, cupping them and stroking upward, until he met the hem of Peter’s shorts. “These have to go. They’re—”

“Spoiling your fun?”

“I was gonna go with blocking my view, but that too. Up…”

Peter undulated for Mike to strip the shorts from him. Much better. A muffled, “_Umph,_” was Peter’s response to Mike reaching his thighs and nuzzling their inner sides. Peter squirmed at Mike scraping his unshaven chin into the crease where leg met groin. The scent there was pure Peter, and Mike inhaled, taking it deep. And as much as he wanted to go real slow, to learn the feel of every bit of Peter, he couldn’t, not with Peter’s cock right there, tempting him. Begging for him, really, with the head all ready for him like that, wet and inviting him to…

Take that thick cock in one hard, long suck, as far down as he could, as hard as he could. Yeah, showing off. He knew stuff, had technique, and wanted Peter to know that. He sucked Peter’s dick deep, not letting up until he had Peter writhing on the bed under him, almost coming. When the precum Mike’s actions released for him to swallow turned thicker, Mike sat back. He made sure Peter was looking at him and he licked his lips as he used his hand to take over his work of making Peter arch as high and moan as loud and slutty as Mike loved to hear.

He brought Peter to the edge again, getting off on the range of noises Peter responded with, a different kind of music to Mike. He had to stop, to rest his hand, and almost wanted to smile at the dazed expression he’d put on Peter’s face. Mike inched up the bed and changed the angle of his hand so he could continue to work Peter, changing his line of attack to nibble on the lobe of the ear he whispered sweet filth into.

“Betcha got no idea how fucking sexy you look right at the edge. And those noises… God, Pete! I fucken love taking you right to the brink. In a minute I’m gonna take you over, but I want to see you at the edge a bit more first.” He ignored his own raging hard-on. “Look at you in my hand. How big you are. Just for me. Oh, I’m gonna enjoy you fucking me. All in good time,” he added, to halt any qualms Peter might have. He jacked him a little more, enjoying Peter’s thrusting.

“Bet you can take more, take it faster without coming, can’t you? Course you can. See?”

“_Miiiike…_”

His name, moaned like that, almost had him coming in his pants. “’S’okay. I’m slowing you down, working you long and easy. Oh, you don’t want that? Want it harder? Quicker?” He jerked Peter more, his soul thrilling at Peter’s string of incoherent, shattered cries as he thrust into Mike’s hand. “I got you.” He gave Peter a nip on his earlobe and a kiss on his panting mouth before sliding back down and swapping his hand for his mouth once more, running his tongue tip over the swollen veins, around the glans, across the head. Peter was hot and red.

“_Please._”

Mike knew that entreaty was Peter at his limit—for now—and showed mercy, easing off a little to cradle Peter’s balls, a soft tease before he returned to sucking hard, his mouth a relentless pressure on Peter’s cock and Peter helpless under him for Mike to drag his climax from him. Peter arched so high he was almost a hoop as he came, shouting, almost screaming, releasing a thick jet of cum for Mike to swallow, despite Peter having already come once that morning.

A little sadistically, Mike didn’t stop, just worked Peter a little gentler, only withdrawing when Peter was hoarse and trying to curl into a ball. “There you go. Let’s get you coming down now. Nice and easy…” Mike prattled gentle, reassuring nonsense, waiting for Peter to come back to himself. God, the look of Peter now, red-faced, sweaty-haired, spent—all Mike’s doing. “Love how you give me everything you got to give,” Mike told him, his voice hardly above a whisper. Peter held nothing back, was the most responsive, vocal partner Mike had ever had. Even now, Peter was gazing into his eyes, letting him share in this, wanting Mike to see him in this vulnerable, fucked-out state.

Mike eased up the bed to lie at Peter’s side, one arm curled protectively over him and his hard-on poking into him. Peter pressed into it.

“I can take a hint. I suppose it’s my turn now.” Peter heaved a sigh.

“Pete, only if you want,” Mike was quick to assure him. “You don’t have to do—” He caught up with Peter’s smirk, then dodged when Peter aimed an imaginary gun at him and mimed firing, then blowing the smoke from the barrel. “Oooh. You little faker! I’m gonna teach you not to—”

“_Mike?_”

“Teach me not to _Mike_?” Peter started to query, before realizing the name had been spoken from outside the door. They both turned to look at it, Mike’s expression a lot more sour.

“Mike? Peter?” the Manchester accent continued.

“I though they were out for the day?” Peter whispered.

“Yeah, well, seems they’re back and—”

“There’s been a little snafu,” Davy said.

Of course. He might have kn— “Is that _screaming_?” Mike sat up, straining to hear. “Where’s Micky?”

“Oh, it’s not him. He’s not here. He said he’s gone to see a man about a tiger cub. I dunno what that’s LA-speak for?”

Mike shook his head and Peter shrugged.

“So, you don’t mind if we have an unexpected guest tonight? For a few days? Only, Joyce is here and she’s upset.”

“Joyce?” Mike queried of Peter, who knew the neighborhood.

“The only Joyce I know is Mrs. Rawlings. From London. Ex-model. Even more of a leggy blonde than her daughter Clarisse,” Peter replied, frowning.

Mike closed his eyes. “She’s upset because…”

“Well, seems their photos came back from the developer. She had her camera at our party, remember? And I think other people were taking pictures with it? And now her husband’s sort of thrown her, no, I mean, she’s sort of left…sort of taking a break from things, you know?”

“What.” Mike’s tone had left grim a while back.

The door opened the tiniest crack for Davy to whisper. “I’m being a Good Samaritan, really. I can’t help feeling sorry for her. Her husband took one look at the photos and said if she was so homesick that she wanted to snog—”

“Make out with,” Peter translated.

“Her British neighbour, he was welcome to her and good luck to them and—”

“British neig—but that’s _you_!” Mike yelped.

“Your point being? So can she stay or not? And the kids? Not Clarisse, obviously. Just the younger ones? Although I guess if Clarisse— Oh and the little one’s brought his pets with him? I say pets, more like a menagerie? He wants to be a zoologist? And it’s the other one’s turn to host his cub scout meeting today?”

“Mike?” Peter queried when Mike pushed himself down into the bed and pulled the sheet right over him, so he couldn’t be seen. “You’re going to have to come out of there at some point, you know.”

“Not if you join me, shotgun,” Mike said, muffled from his hideaway, lifting a corner of the sheet in invitation.

“Good point…”

Peter accepted Mike’s invitation, meaning they left North Beechwood Drive, in particular 1334 North Beechwood Drive, to sort itself out, for the afternoon at least. Whatever was downstairs—runaway wives, menageries, screams and all—would keep…


End file.
